


Indigo

by Dusty_Forgotten



Series: Sunset [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Age Difference, Blow Jobs, F/M, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Music, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-05-03 22:41:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5309759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dusty_Forgotten/pseuds/Dusty_Forgotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And it just keeps happening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The moonlight streams around her, body blackened in silhouette. Stock of a rifle peeks over one shoulder, and her face around the other. She’s so damn pale, light sticks to her skin like humidity sticks to his. A half-smile splits up the side. “Hey, Harkness. I was lookin’ for you.”

“Erin," he greets, a little tightly. “Is there a problem?”

“No, no, just a quick request.” She crosses her arms, leaning against the wall. “How the hell do I get off this boat?”

The bridge isn’t out. He huffs a chuckle, and thumbs the intercom. “We got anyone up there?” Quiet. He can’t help but glance at her, waiting for a response. She doesn’t seem to find it awkward at all. “...Guess no one’s on the tower tonight.”

She frowns, but he doesn’t see it long before she turns. The Wanderer shakes her head, and leans to look over the precipice. “Really didn’t want to go swimming tonight...”

Harkness sighs. “Okay, wait.” Her brows go up, eyes wide. And adorable. “I’ll go up.”

Her face softens into a thankful smile. “Aw, really, chief?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just...” His fingers slide through his hair, and he spares a glance for the Marketplace door he’s posted to. “Don’t steal anything.”

The Lone Wanderer shrugs, and her eyes smile. “No promises.”

He realizes halfway between the midship deck and bridge tower that if it were anyone else, he would’ve told them to watch for mirelurks down there. It’s because she’s done right by him, with Zimmer and all. That’s all.

He’s pushing the lever for the crane when a guard comes up behind him. “Where the hell have you been?”

She gives him a skeptical look from under the visor, sliding in next to him. “Taking a whizz. I was only gone like five minutes.”

It took him four to get up here- and only two to get down. She was smart enough to find Pinkerton, she’s smart enough to use an intercom.

Smart enough to be gone by the time he gets down there.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While writing this, I listened to nothing but [Often by The Weeknd](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JPIhUaONiLU).

He’s an adult. A grown man, with an ex-wife he thinks about way too much for having never actually met her, and a job that consumes his life otherwise, and a friend (who he works with, but still). Harkness is an adult, and if he wants to make out with some vault girl, that’s their business. Well, and that friend he mentioned- _if_ he decides to tell her. Or she beats it out of him.

Either way, what two people do on the flight deck is between them. Well, and him, because it’s his job to keep people from doing things on the flight deck... Bad example; he doesn’t care what grown-ups get up to- as long as no one complains to him about it.

So there’s no issue, because he’s well into adulthood (as previously mentioned) and Erin’s... an adult. Barely.

Weird he’s getting seasick. The ship doesn’t even float.

Harkness swallows and follows a memorized path through the halls, somewhere he can see the horizon instead of ruins. He’s on the Midship deck, clenching his fists off and on as he walks, when he’s seized by the arm and yanked through an open door. His fist wraps around the butt of the Chinese Assault Rifle over his shoulder, and a finger presses to his lips.

Erin smiles, a little deviously, and slides her hand down to his forearm, patting his cheek. He opens his mouth, to talk, and she touches her ear, then points out the door. The Lone Wanderer creeps close to the doorway, thick soles surprisingly quiet on the metal flooring, and stands silently.

“...Rather be with a real girl? Maybe you try it before you decide.”

“Lord, give me strength...”

“Diego, do you think I’m sexy?”

“Is that-” Harkness speaks up, but Erin shoots him a glare with pale blue eyes, and he shuts up. Of course it’s Angela; he knows the gossip, he’s seen them talking.

“Well, I, uh...”

“I mean, if you weren’t a priest and everything... Would you be turned on by me?”

He barely hears that last part, spoken sensually soft.

Diego clears his throat. “S-sure. You are... _incredibly_ sexy.”

Harkness looks to the Wanderer- for some reason. He pretends not to see her own eyes as they flick away.

“Not that I’d noticed! I’m going to be a priest, and they don’t... um... you know...”

The door across from them shrieks open, and before he can think, Harkness has his arms around her waist and her feet off the ground, backing them out of the line of sight. Erin- honest to God- squeaks, then they both go silent as footsteps recede, and another set approaches. They’re crammed against each other in the corner of an abandoned room, his arms around her body, and her body against his. Diego doesn’t even glance as he passes.

Harkness lets out a quiet breath, lets her down. A small hand grabs his wrist, and he fights the urge to let it settle to the contour of her stomach. The Wanderer’s eyes turn agonizingly slow from the open doorway to rest just over her shoulder. She turns his wrist, next, slowly, and guides it down, past the hem of her jacket, and rests at the zipper of her jeans. Erin strains her eyes to look up at him through a sheer curtain of lashes, eyebrow arched, and the corner of her mouth quirked that direction.

He could say that last time, he wasn’t thinking. It happened before he could second-guess it, brain too hazed by lust and her goddamn _body_ \- but right now... He can see a literal open door, for God’s sake. Just beyond her smirk.

Her hand clamps to his wrist as he grinds the heel of his palm into her pubic mound. She bites her lip as she fights her fly open- cranes her neck to make sure he sees it, too- and he dips under the fabric. Sweaty between her thighs, and slick between the folds, and the way she leans back into him and sighs when he gets a finger inside is _maddening_. Harkness thumbs her clit, and fingers her languidly, all in the wrist. Her jeans creak as he pushes against them. Erin’s whole body arches; her head strains back, and she moans, eyes closed and mouth wide open. He can feel her breath on his chin. Puts his shoulder into it.

The Wanderer clenches as she stutters a sound, and he aims to keep her doing that. Seems to be working, by the grin on her face. One of her hands holds her pants open, and the other goes from his wrist to the back of his head, makes him kiss her. It’s really not comfortable for either of them, terrible angle, but he loves the intimacy.

“Just like that,” she whispers into his mouth, and far be it from Harkness to argue. She’s getting close- he can tell from her every muscle tightening (including the fingers curling up at his scalp) and how she bites her lip and almost stops breathing. His forearm’s cramping, but if he can do eighty push-ups in two minutes, he can get a girl off, dammit.

He does, and doesn’t stop until she gasps and angles her hips away. He withdraws his finger, and lets her grind against his palm. Harkness can’t seem to take his eyes off the damn door.

Erin jerks his head down, ‘til their eyes meet, and he hates himself for not being able to hold her gaze. In his peripherals, her eyes soften, and she slides out of his arms. It’s a loss he feels in the back of his throat. She zips her fly, and aside from a slight dilation to her pupils, she looks like nothing happened. He hates it.

“You gonna go, or should I?” she says, but Erin’s got a voice like a con artist, and now she just sounds... sad.

“Do we have to?”

The Wanderer smiles in a half-face, half-repressed way, and she’s backing towards that damn door. “See you, chief,” she swears, and slips out. There’s a guard not two beats behind.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suggest [Chasing Twisters by Delta Rae](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GqXzYA5MQmA).

Is the ship tilted? It feels like the ship’s tilted.

Everything’s out of whack, from his thoughts, to his sleep schedule- never been _in_ whack, that- but, details. He rotated the shifts recently- and there he goes again, walking down the wrong goddamn hallway! Harkness suppresses the urge to beat his head against the wall, and circles back.

Patrolling (and loitering) where Harkness does, you hear a lot of gossip. It’s a lot of the same: Angela’s got the hots, Paulie’s on drugs, Hargrave’s a little shit- the usual. Nothing he doesn’t already know. The conversation he currently finds himself accidental eavesdropper to, however, is a little different.

“Slap a fucking collar on him, what’s so hard?”

“He’s not my target.” _Sister_ . Harkness was looking for the final straw on that jerk. Oh, he’s taking this guy down - “I’m here for the android.”

Look, he knows he doesn’t have the organs- not even humans have the anatomy- but Harkness swears his heart lodges firmly in his throat. He latches onto one of the pipes running the length of these walls he thought he knew so well.

“Come on. We both know the synth’s dead.”

Harkness closes his eyes and breathes, like oxygen does anything for him. No one’s after him. Erin did good.

Erin.

“So does everyone else, and if you wanna stay, you need a job. Want mine?”

He sighs. “I’ll take it. Flak, right? Which one’s that?”

“Hey, I gave you the job,” Erin says in the same voice that told him not to mind the condom, “earn your keep, Sis.”

The ship is definitely tilted. Actually, it’s capsizing as they speak.

“Fuck you,” Sister grumbles, and if Erin replies, it’s with a gesture. Seething, (panicking,) he continues the route, a little quicker than previously, because he’s not about to arrest the both of them on his own. Even Erin alone, he’d want backup. And goddamn, but she’s coming his way.

“Chief!” she calls excitedly, and Harkness keeps walking. She sprints after, and cuts him off at the doorway to Midship, grin on her face. “I’ve got something for ya’.”

“I’m busy.” he snaps.

When he reaches for the door, the Wanderer squeezes between. “Oh, you’ll want to hear this.”

A couple clicks on her Pip-Boy, and Harkness is gripping the handle so hard, he wonders if he’s strong enough to snap it off.

The recording starts with a rustle.

_“Just the man I was looking for!_

A long groan precedes the line; he’s not happy to see her. _“What the hell do you want?_

_“Relax, Sister, I’m here on business."_

_“What business?_

_“Your business. Flak’s on the list.”_

Her face glows in the light of the Pip-Boy she holds up to it, smiling self-satisfied. Harkness has quit breathing.

_“I don’t know what you’re talking about."_

_“Don’t give me that shit, Eulogy sent me."_

_“Who?”_

_“Eulogy, fuckwad, now about that job... What the fuck’re you lookin’ at me like that, for? Slap a fucking collar on him, what’s so hard?"_

Relief floods him- wants to do something- laugh like a madman, kiss her, maybe. He feels like he needs some breathing room, but can’t bring himself to give her any. Like oxygen does anything for him. The tape plays through, just the same as he heard before, and she’s smart- smart enough to get a confession from a slaver, and not dumb enough she’d set foot on this ship with a collar in her pocket.

_“Come on. We both know the synth’s dead."_

His eyes fix on her smiling lips, and he only manages to flick them up to ask, “How’d you know?”

A simper shrug, like she doesn’t eat up the attention. “Mei Wong thought he was after her. I poked around.”

Come on, they’re close enough; he could just kiss her, right here- and far be it from Erin to mind- but something’s tugging at him, like a primary directive. There’s a goddamn slaver on his boat.

“Come with me,” he says, almost into her mouth before he backs off. It’s occurred to him, he’s got something for her, too.

Bannon gives them a bit of the side-eye, but Harkness has zero patience for that guy since he got booted from the Council. He hurries by, but falls out of step when the Lone Wanderer’s hand wraps around his arm.

She detaches as they approach the Bridge Tower, but his pace stays the same. “Commander Danvers!”

She turns from the guard she was conversing with, who makes himself scarce at the approach of the chief, eye contact all the response she gives. Erin stands to the sideline, homogenizing herself to the background by trying to look bored.

“Show Sister to the nearest exit. He’s earned it.”

Her eyebrows go up in the closest thing to a smile Lana Danvers’s face is familiar with. “And how’d he do that?”

Harkness looks off as he tries to make not knowing how to put it tactfully look like a casual pause. He fails spectacularly. Something taps his shoulder.

A holotape, in Erin’s hand. Lana takes it before he can. Checks for a label- none- and responds to her colleague, “I’ll handle it.”

He affirms, “I’m sure you will,” and walks on.

Erin’s a little put off by the whole encounter, and follows hastily. They take another two flights, and she’s a little out of breath by the top (yet she criss-crosses the Wasteland on foot for a living; go figure).

“Sir!” the robot bellows when they reach top, whirring to attention.

“At ease,” Harkness allows, waving for the Lone Wanderer to follow. She knows the door. Of _course_ she knows the door for the Rivet City armory- knows the guard rotation, the number of tumblers in the lock, and Private Jones’s specific operating system. For reasons.

She pretends to have no clue the significance of the location, pretends not to make a mental note for which pocket that key comes from, and- holy fucking shit _,_ he lets her in! The Wanderer smiles politely as she steps inside, and postpones the fist-pumping for private. The chief of Rivet City security (who _let her_ _in here_ ) pulls the door shut behind them, and gives the wheel a quarter-turn, just to keep it closed.

It’s not much to look at inside, but neither are government bunkers: just some lockers, and ammo boxes, and a lot of empty space, actually. Hell, Flak and Shrapnel have this much firepower laying out on the counter. But hey, maybe there’s a Fat Man in one of those lockers. (It’s probably just more uniforms.)

“Don’t touch anything,” the synth warns, and Erin puts her empty little hands up. “I’m doing inventory tonight, and if anything’s missing, I’m coming for you.”

“Message received.” She’s got at least four of those ammo crates at home she hasn’t cracked open yet, anyway. He takes the combination lock for the far left cabinet in hand, and Erin dutifully stares at the opposite wall. “So...” she starts, lacing fingers behind her head. “You fuckin’ her?”

She grins at the sound of the lock spinning out, and his hand smacking it still. Clearing his throat is not as quiet as he thinks it is. “Why do you ask?”

“I have never seen two people interact with such forced, uncomfortable professionalism. You’ve gotta be banging.”

He tries the combination over, since screwing it up the first time. “Well, we aren’t.”

“Not even once?”

For a second, the only sounds are the settling of an ancient aircraft carrier. He opens the locker, and Erin lets her head rest against the wall. “You’re very similar people. Couple of hardasses, acting like they don’t run this ship, inventive nautical threats, tied first place for Most Likely to Actually Eat Nails.”

Harkness gets whatever he was in there for, and snaps the lock back into place. “Hell, you’ve even got that dead spouses thing you’re both _totally not_ fucked up about.”

He comes into her field of view, with the kind of face she imagines being the last a person sees. Erin grins. “Whatcha got?”

He looks down at the plasma rifle in his hands. “I never rewarded you for that Zimmer job, but now I’m not sure if I want to...”

Only when she holds his stare for a good two seconds does the corner of his mouth barely twitch. “You’ve got the worst sense of sarcasm- and you’re speaking to an expert.”

He rolls his eyes, but hands her the gun. “Here. Best weapon I’ve ever had- and I’ve had it forever.”

It’s not as heavy as she expected, but just as cumbersome. She turns the plasma rifle over, one of the washers jingling loose, a few scratches she can buff off, and a chip out of the hand rest, but the hardware’s in good shape. Now, the Wanderer’s seen some military-grade plasma rifles, even a few Enclave variants (only difference really being the paint scheme) but the hoses on this are copper, not plastic, and the main housing peeking between all the apparatus is safety-yellow. It seems more like a prototype than anything intended for mass-production. And it is, isn’t it?

When she speaks, it’s with certainty. “This is from the Institute.”

It’s no revelation to him. Harkness gives a vague nod while the Lone Wanderer shifts her grip to the barrel and leans the gun on the wall.

There’s a moment, here, where they feel the words neither says, clear as soundwaves. Harkness, arms crossed, but he’s the one crowding her to the wall- and Erin, a girl with four guns on her person and one in her hand, not making any effort to move. She cocks a brow. He flexes his jaw.

She quirks a smiles, diplomatic to the end. “Thanks for the rifle, Hark.” Grabs it by the neck, and when she turns for the door, he puts his palm to the wall next to her head. Erin eyes it with a settled disinterest. Blue eyes flick up to his, and she casts, “This isn’t gonna work for me if you want to date your coworker.”

Jaw clamped shut to keep from goddamn chattering, he grits, “We’re just _friends_.”

“Oh yeah?” Her body language closes, and her knee bumps his where she bends it. “Sex that bad?”

“It was just _once!_ ” And again, with mechanical malfunctions that feel human inside of him. Stomach, this time. He swallows down the bile. “Her husband died, I was _drunk_ -”

It occurs to him, speaking it: he’s not who he thinks he is, his entire life’s been a lie- _androids can’t get_ _drunk_. She knows it.

She kisses him, quick as a laser pistol, with his cheeks between her hands, nothing but cracking, urgent lips. He forces his arms underneath rifle straps, and curls his fingers in the leather of her back, tastes blood from a scraped scab, and he doesn’t feel like a placeholder.

The rifle falls when she whirls him around, but he’s rammed it into plenty of human faces with metal skulls; it’s fine. Erin goes for his cup, and he can’t get drunk, but he’s pretty damn sure he’s already lost his mind. She only releases one of the buckles, lets the straps around his thighs drop in full circles to the floor- squeezes a little too hard at the crotch seam, and rubs him through the fabric. Harkness kisses her until he tastes metal.

The vault kid falls to her knees in front of him- button, zipper, slide.

“You don’t have to-”

“Either tell me I look good down here, or shut up.”

Ship settles. She traces the outline in his boxer briefs with her tongue, breath hot through light fabric, hands running up and down his thighs. Erin hooks fingers in his waistband, dragging down slower than Harkness realized he’s in deep. To both points, there is a definitive and conflictive end.

She jerks them down to his knees, runs her open lips down the shaft, and her tongue back up. Flattens her tongue under the head, and her eyes are _killing_ him. She draws him in, just barely before she pulls back, laps at the frenulum, slides down the side: anything but. She’s making him crazy. She _knows_ it, knows she’s tearing him apart, from the inside out- literally, with that component that came out of his own synthetic body in Zimmer’s pocket, halfway back to the Commonwealth by now...

He’s thinking too much.

Erin sucks in her cheeks, and he balls his fists; got nothing better to do with his hands. She finds something, though- takes his wrist to the back of her head, but he’s more inclined to wrap a lock of her hair around his finger than set up a rhythm. He’s not ready to be done, anyway, for her to be gone to the creaking metal corridors and caving cement, because every time she crosses that bridge, he wonders if she’ll make it back.

He knows he’s in deep, okay? He _knows_.

Harkness shifts his hand around the front, puts her chin between his thumb and forefinger and nudges away. The way she pants is freezing on the saliva-slick head, but the way she looks up at him is fiery.

“You look good,” he admits, a bit hoarsely.

The Lone Wanderer smiles, and the flash of teeth that appears scares him a little. “Thanks, Hark.” In the same breath, “I know.”

He swipes the saliva from her laugh line with his thumb, and she catches it in her peripherals- then between her lips. Her eyes close, her tongue swirls, and she was just giving him head; why is this so attractive? She feels the twitch in his dick, and twitches a smile in turn. It’s the same grin she gives for everything from a good trade to a good bluff. Which she is. _Bluffing._

It’s not a nip so much as a chomp, right to the joint of his thumb, and she lets him go before he gets through the blasphemy to the curse in the word “ _Goddammit!_ ”

“Huh,” she muses while he eyes the incisor-shaped indents. “Thought Pinkerton said he upped your reflexes.”

He catches her this time, hand in her hair before she can get that nippy mouth anywhere close to his junk. Erin raises a brow. “Or maybe he did.”

His grip tightens in her hair, and hers tightens on his cock. Juts her chin enough to tongue the tip, and she twists her wrist as she strokes.

She’s on a power trip: she’s nineteen and thinks she owns the Wastes because she’s the most popular story on the airwaves. He’s a half-decade from middle-aged, and he listens to those stories. Every one.

Then again, his right hand slides through her hair as his left goes through his own- and out the back of both- so, maybe, she’s right.

Erin seems determined to convince him not to boot her off the boat (like he has enough balls for that cradled in her left hand), peeking her tongue out alongside the downstroke. It occurs to him, vaguely, that he’s completely at her mercy- blowjob besides. She’s on her knees, but that doesn’t fool him; he let her in the armory. Harkness wouldn’t even let Lana in when she locked her keys in her footlocker.

He’s human enough to have fooled himself, but there are so many variables that go into a person, it’s no surprise a couple got overlooked. He has the worst sense of taste (Hargrave once snuck turpentine in his coffee, and he drank the whole cup without a clue), and while it cuts off circulation for other people, Harkness can stand with his knees locked indefinitely. Right now, however, that talent seems to be failing him.

One of his hands clutches the girder to his right, the other shoving shakily at her shoulder- not trying to move her- God forbid- just let her know, “ _Hey, great job, but wherever you like semen, now would be the time to figure that out._ ” If she does anything, it’s to speed the stroke, and look him in the eyes- as long as he can keep his open, anyway. When he groans his orgasm, she moans right back, and the vibration on his oversensitive head is just this side of unpleasant. He wonders if she’s mocking him- and when he finally gets his eyes open, he knows she is.

Still, Erin pops him out, smiles as she sticks her tongue out, folds it back, shows him before she swallows. Doesn’t know why she does; where else is it going if she doesn’t open her mouth? She licks her lips, and he tries to think of something to say. Draws a blank.

“You ever wonder about the guy that had to taste-test synthetic semen?”

Harkness immediately wishes for silence.

“I’m serious,” she starts, standing. “Someone had to find a chemical compound that tastes right and stores indefinitely. That’s a major project. That man is a chemist, and they’ve got him making cum.”

He covers his face with his hand, so he doesn’t have to look at that smarmy smile.

“I bet his friends call him the synthsucker.”

“Please stop.”

“I’m kidding,” she assures, touching his shoulder. He looks up. “...Synthsucker doesn’t have friends.”

Harkness bounces between embarrassment and disappointment, but the amusement seeps through. Erin’s grin softens to something believable. “You’ve got a real cute smile, you know.”

He doesn’t know. Snorts, rolls his eyes, shakes his head. The Wanderer darts to her toes, kisses him on the corner of the mouth. She’s gone so quick, he doesn’t get to ask if that's what she was aiming for.

Inventory comes up clean, not including a discrepancy of four 10 millimeter rounds (but he expects that much of a miscount, only being human- or, Lana is, at least) and one unique plasma rifle that wasn’t technically supposed to be in there in the first place. It’s late by the time he finishes: shoves everything back on their shelves, and paws his pocket for the key as he steps outside. He doesn’t find it.

Harkness curses loud enough it startles Private Jones. “Sir, is there a problem, Sir!”

Already shaking his head, he glances back- and finds a key hanging from the Gutsy’s eye stalk.

If Harkness weren’t so annoyed, he’d think she was trying to impress him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [All These Things That I've Done by The Killers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_QsnhKfrzI4)

She didn’t say goodbye. A week and a half; even Three Dog’s found other stories.

But Rivet City couldn’t forget. Seagrave keeps all his scrap metal and pre-war money in a little chest just for her, Abraham Washington has never once shut up about hoping she’s okay (but hasn’t the slightest where she’s gone— he vehemently insists to every unprovoked passerby), Diego and Angela swore to postpone the wedding until she got back. Then there’s Harkness, chief of security, hardass machine of a man without a real feeling in his artificial brain, hunched over the railing of a little dead-end catwalk at two am, because he can’t sleep (because he’s down maybe an hour before the memories startle him awake). There’s a cigarette in his hand. Little more than distal fixation, that; it’s not lit. He doesn’t have a lighter.

It’s at two am on a catwalk over the flight deck that he flicks a cigarette off the edge and hopes she found her dad.

He has another internal debate the next day about whether he should buy a matchbook, or just sell the damn cigarettes. Doesn’t make a decision though, because Lana’s shouting for him. He’s after her in a heartbeat.

“What’s the problem!?” She’s a grown woman; she handles most things herself. Handled Sister just fine.

“You need to see this,” is all she says, and then she’s shoving him into the Science Lab and closing the door behind him.

Wouldn’t be the first time, like asking his help with a tussle in the Muddy Rudder, and then she suddenly remembers she’s got other _absolutely urgent_ responsibilities, and he’s stuck mediating Brock and Trinnie. At least this fight isn’t sexually tense. He makes his way to the stairs, hoping no one’s busted the equipment.

Dr. Li seems to be the instigator, argumentative against someone just trying to have a discussion— and he calls her _Madison,_ and she _doesn’t correct him._

“Damn you, James!” she shouts, and he knows that’s not Hargrave— how many other Jameses does he know?

Well, one way to find out. “Is there a problem here?”

All eyes are on him, from the assistants, to Li’s death glare, to a man he knows he’s never met before but feels like he should recognize, to someone who is now barrelling up the stairs as the man touches _Madison’s_ shoulder. He’s never seen someone get away with that before— and he’s never let anyone get away with pulling him around by the arm, but here they are.

Here she is.

“Explanation, right!” Erin begins, but he’s still catching up on _Where the hell have you been_ and _Thank God you’re back._ “So that’s my dad. He worked with Dr. Li a long time ago, project failed, but he has a way to fix it now, so I’m gonna need to borrow your science team for a bit.”

Finally, his processors kick in. “Define _a bit?_ ”

She shrugs some, and Li’s stomping around behind her, gathering things and people. “It’s for a good cause. You’ll hardly miss ‘em!”

He looks at the swath of sunburn over her cheeks, a bruise on her forehead, smiling like she knows something he doesn’t. Like how she keeps getting him to agree with her.

“Sweetie, there you are,” someone says— that someone being the same someone as before, and that same someone currently walking towards them.

Harkness stands up a little straighter. “Evening.”

“Good evening, Chief…? Pardon, I seem to have forgotten.”

“Harkness,” he replies, arms crossing because they’re quite tired of hanging at his sides.

“Harkness, thank you.” He’s got grey hair, half white, and crow’s feet that pop up when he smiles— which he does, far too sweetly, and then turns it on his daughter. “Erin, I didn’t realize you were acquainted. I hope you met under good circumstances.”

“She ran a job for me,” the synth assures, maybe too quickly.

Apparently that was the wrong answer, because she ignores it entirely. “Oh, you know me, assault, burglary, copyright infringement.” She fixes her eyes on Harkness, a wink on the side he can see. “Threatening an official.”

He can’t decide on an expression: affront, exasperation, or to smile and shake his head like he’s accustomed to her jokes. Unbidden, his brows furrow, because she’s giving her father one of those looks, but he actually understand it. They nonverbally converse on some higher plane of comprehension while Harkness stands, wondering if they’d notice if he just left. Dr. Li blusters through behind them, toting a suitcase.

They both turn to him, synchronised, simper, and he’d rather be stuck between the barrels of a shotgun than the two of them. James sticks out his hand, perfectly noninflammatory and grinning like a shiteater. Harkness takes it, to avoid looking like a _complete_ jerk.

“It’s good to meet you, Chief Harkness. Lovely ship you have here.”

James shakes hands like he knows Harkness fucked his daughter.

“Glad to see you’re… still alive.”

“That makes two of us,” James chuckles, smoothing over however awkward that came out.

“Get moving, or I’m leaving without you!” Madison— Dr. _Li_ — shouts over the drone of a semi-functional water purifier.

Bemusedly, “I take it that’s our cue.”

“I gotta resupply before we go,” she blurts. Pleads, almost. It’s strange, seeing her so passive— a little discomforting, to be honest.

“Of course.” James puts an arm around her shoulder, kisses her temple, and she ducks her head as she smiles with all her teeth. “Although I can’t guarantee how long I can hold her off.”

“JAMES!”

“Coming, Madison!” he laughs, like Erin— top of the throat and brief. He takes a few steps towards the door when he seems to remember something. Looks at Harkness in a way that gets both his knees locked. Smiles, smug. “Make sure she doesn’t get into too much trouble, hm?”

“Don’t forget to show him my baby pictures while you’re at it— especially the bath ones.”

He doesn’t twitch a muscle, but that smile seems completely different when it’s towards Erin. “I love you.”

The Wanderer manages to be exasperated and sincere in the same words. “Love you too, and I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“See you soon.” Finally, he goes.

“So, chief,” Erin contends, instantly back to herself (or maybe her attitude to her father is the real one, and she’s just getting back into character), “we’re both headed to the market. Walk with me?”

Like he has a choice. “Might as well.”

She inclines her head, and they walk side-by-side.

“He was fuckin’ with you, you know.”

Harkness nods to a guard as they pass, waits a beat before he charges, “What?”

“My dad. If you played it cool he would have kissed your ass ‘cause he’s taking the science team, and you kind of need that for, oh, food and water? But _no,_ Hard-nose Harkness gets defensive about knowing someone you’ve _obviously_ met before. You walked right into it.”

He narrowly avoids walking into a file cabinet.

“Look, my dad’s… great. He’s risking his life to bring the Capital Wasteland clean water— which he wouldn’t even need if he just stayed in the vault. He’s a good guy.”

“… And?”

The Lone Wanderer stops, bites her lip. Looks left. Her Pip-Boy. Right. “And I’m totally lost.”

Harkness takes the lead; it’s to the left. “I believe you when you say he means well. I just wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.”

“That’s pretty far, actually.” He shakes his head. Erin confesses, “He manipulates everyone he meets. Don’t take it personal, he’s just really protective of what he cares about.”

They weren’t that far from the market; he pauses with one hand on the wheel. “You?”

He meant it as a joke— the kind only he ever finds funny— but it’s met with silence. “The Project, mostly,” she responds quietly.

Yeah, great guy. Lies to his daughter her entire life. Leaves without a word to chase a pipe dream. Pokes fun at the security guard when he should be… angry about something Harkness seems to be the only one concerned with. Maybe it’s all those years in the lab without a damn feeling that makes him think it’s right, maybe it’s the part of him with a wife and wartime medals that thinks it’s wrong. Maybe they’re both wrong.

Maybe he’s thinking too much.

Harkness lets go of the handle, clenches a fist to pop his knuckles. Over his shoulder, she’s smiling. Coquettish. “… He knows I can take care of myself.”

He holds eye contact, makes certain he looks only at her eyes. “Smart man.”

He faces her; she takes a few steps forward. “For your own personal record, all he knows is what he gleaned from that demonstration in unsubtlety. Besides, he’s really good at keeping secrets. Your reputation’s safe.”

For some reason, of every stupid, irritating thing she’s ever done, that’s the most infuriating. He leans in, close until she doesn’t have a choice but to listen, and rumbles, “Of all the things that could get out about me, you’re the _least_ of my problems.”

When she blinks, Harkness realizes he’s been still a second too long. Swallows. Still doesn’t move.

“What are you waitin’ for, an invitation?”

“Sort of.”

Slowly, Erin snakes a hand around the back of his neck, and closes the gap between their lips. His hands find her hips, somewhere under that jacket, and there’s tongues before teeth. Soft, gentle, and he’s not falling apart trying to keep up. That’s new.

And God, it feels right.

She moves to his jaw, down his next, no rush to get where she’s going.

The one time they’re actually in a rush.

“You don’t want to keep Dr. Li waiting,” Harkness breathes, ruefully, “I say that from experience.”

Mumbled against his collarbone, “Fuck Dr. Li.”

He huffs, once, in a way which is strangely close to laughter. “Should I be jealous?”

“No, she’s way too into my dad.” Erin says in the hollow of his throat, then pulls back. “But I am scary low on stimpaks.”

“There’s a mutant camp on the road to Jefferson.”

Erin sighs, puts her hands on his sides and forehead to his breastplate. “Raincheck?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

The Lone Wanderer darts to her toes, pecks him right on the lips, no doubt she hit her mark. “Maybe next time I’ll have a couple champagne flutes of clean water.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

They disconnect, and it doesn’t leave him aching. Erin spins the door handle to the Marketplace, and shoves it open.

“Oh, by the way,” she casts, “your memory donor’s been dead for centuries.”


End file.
